


A Virtuoso of Deceit

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Manipulations, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-12
Updated: 2011-06-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 08:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the paths our lives take are not the ones we had planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Virtuoso of Deceit

She hates King’s Landing.

She hates it for all the reasons any sane person hates it. The festering stench, which was even worse as they finally begin to enter summer. The press and clatter of the crowds, from which there was never any escape. The devastation from the war, still visible after all these years, rubble lining the streets and blood stains on the stones.

Yet for Sansa Stark, the hatred ran deep, imprinted on her bones and entwined with her soul. Even now, years after her lord husband had brought her back to this hive, the hatred lingers with a dull ache. It allows her just enough control to go about her daily activities but it is always underneath, waiting for the right moment to rip her to shreds. The years had made her an expert in covering it, but there are still those nights when the memories come, and she wakes shaking and sobbing and tearing at the sheets. On those occasions she tells her husband some tale about lost children and bad dreams, and he holds her and kisses her till her tears dry. But then, in the morning, nothing would have changed. It was always there, like a toothache she could not help but worry. When they had returned to the city on a cloudless, calm night he has asked her if she wanted dreamwine to steady her nerves. Sansa had but she refused him, knowing that she needed to face this. And she had been facing it every day since.

Of course, King’s Landing did have its advantages. The people were either ignorant or egotistic fools, but they all had plans and schemes that they imagined were brilliant. They made good prey—-diversions and challenges, an evening’s amusement or a fortnight’s puzzle. There was nothing quite as satisfying to her as finding the perfect mark. And the capital offered such an endless supply that, as much as she hated being here, she knew she could never bring herself to leave. This is what she was good at, this is what made the pain bearable. It was like needlework in a way. Her stitches had always been precise, just as her words and deeds were now. She could manipulate thread to create whatever she desired. She could bend people to her will and remain as innocent as a maid.

And besides, there was still so much to be gained from her pawns at Kings Landing. She thought about this as she smiled down at the dark-haired girl at her breast. Alyse, she had called her. Every other name had too much weight. When they had placed the screaming bundle in her arms for the first time she had thought, with a sense of weary triumph, that her daughter would never be a victim. She ran one finger over the soft cheek nuzzled against her, and repeated that declaration to herself.

The light was fading fast. Her mind was working, as it always did, worrying at the ache.

****

The years that she had passed in the Vale now seemed as though they had belonged to another life which, of course, they had. It was Alayne’s life and Alayne was a construct, a pretense, so of course all memories of that time would be touched with that weightless that comes with a half-remembered dream. In order to remain alive it was necessary to forget, to submerse herself fully into this other life. Sometimes a memory would come to Sansa, but the more time past the harder it became to differentiate the truth from the lies that she had created to fill the gaps in Alayne’s life. Some of Alayne’s memories were more vivid than others, but they all shared a sense of detachment, as if the bastard girl was just another figure in the songs.

The Moon Door was real enough though, every aspect of it crystal clear in her mind. She could not get rid of it if she tried.

She had married Harrold in the Vale, just as Petyr said she would, but not with a white direwolf cape about her shoulders. Poor Sweetrobin was near death at the time, and Petyr told her it all depended upon her marrying Harry before he inherited, so the engagement was announced and the ceremony performed in less than a week. All she remembered of the wedding was the feel of silk on her skin, Harrold’s easy smile, and the way Petyr looked at her. And the Moon Door, always in her sight. Even the wedding night was unremarkable enough; painful for sure, but not as dreadful as she had been anticipating. While Harry had snored beside her she had remained awake, running through the plan Petyr had laid out for her, until she finally succumbed to exhaustion.

Robert had been dead by dawn of the next day and Alayne Stone found herself Lady of the Vale.

She had been married to Harry for two, almost three years. Sometimes Sansa had to repeat that fact to herself out loud. Almost three years of her life as Lady of the Vale, and all of it was like a waking dream.

Harry had gotten her with child near the end of the first year. She had thought back on all the hopes and dreams Sansa Stark had had for her perfect royal children, the foolish girl. Pregnancy, or at least this pregnancy, was not at all what she expected it to be, and she was perplexed by the tenuous connection she had to the child growing inside her. It wasn’t until she lost it, in a bed of blood, that she realized why. It was Alayne's child, and Alayne did not exist.

Still, she felt the loss of that nonexistent child greatly, and Petyr shared in it. She did not leave the bed for a month, and he almost never left her side, talking to her about matters inane and serious, wiping her brow, and holding her when she was wracked with sobs whose source she could not quite pin-point. Harrold had visited her once or twice, but she could not clearly remember him; he was like a shadow in the room. All she remembered was Petyr, there, whispering in her ear.

When she was finally up and able to walk about the castle he remained at her side, letting her lean on his arm and bearing her weight. Harrold had become no more than a name to her. He kept his distance, busied himself with his whores and hounds, and she was grateful she would no longer have to endure his mindless chatter and touches that left her cold. Petyr’s presence was enough to warm her. His plan was fitting together and she was playing her part well. With him, she would have everything she ever wanted.

When he took her for the first time, in his solar at mid-day, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Pleasurable, even. She had clung to him desperately and could feel him almost trembling under her grip. She remembered how he sighed with pleasure as he entered her for the first time, and she had felt her chest constrict with emotion, brought on by the feeling of security. Yes, this is where she belonged, she knew it. It was clear in that moment, and the memory of that certainty remained.

From that point forward she had a regular place in his bed, although Petyr’s favorite spot was still the first, on the desk in his solar. It was here that he could best play the teacher, instructing her in the ways of love and the flesh, of manipulation and control. She was a more than eager pupil and he was pleased with her progress. He stirred in her something that no man had ever had before, a mix of physical and mental ecstasy as she worked out new ways to bring him under her sway. He would be alternatively rough and gentle with her, as the lesson demanded or her behavior warranted. She took it all in, waiting for the appropriate moment to assert herself, if only for a second. She knew she had him when she could hear a slight tremor in his voice. It was always brief, but it made it all worth it.

She had to be discreet, of course. That was all part of her instruction. She drank moon tea often, stolen from Randa’s coffers. When the ingredients were discovered missing, she constructed an elaborate story placing the blame on a number of maids and received gratification from Randa in return. She watched her back whenever she left his chambers, she fixed any tears on her clothing herself, and she kept up the ruse that he was her father (a falsehood that had cropped up in her lessons, in what she occasionally called him in the midst of it, when her bottom stung and her legs were wrapped around his back. She tried not to remember the name he sometimes called her). Nothing was ever said, and she learned how to smirk while her face remained a passive mask.

The protection of the Vale had kept them out of the war, secluded in their own reality. But now, amazingly, if was nearing an end. Amidst the excitement, Harrold shockingly fell to his death trying to cross the stone bridge coming down from the Eyrie. Petyr was there to comfort her, as always, and to suggest they leave for King’s Landing and as soon as possible, to help her deal with her grief. And the quicker they bent the knee, the better. Alayne agreed, and did not ask anything more. Her hands were clean.

When Daenerys Targaryen had taken the throne with Tyrion at her side, and he had cleared her name (he never connected Petyr to Joffrey’s murder, poor fool, though of course there were larger concerns to be had) she went back to being Sansa Stark and the task of trying to connect the two began.

And everything that Alayne had made herself forget, Sansa remembered.

****

A servant woke her gently. Apparently she had dozed off during the feeding. It was now past dark, Alyse was fast asleep, and her lord husband was awaiting her presence at dinner. Sansa kissed her daughter before handing her off, then pulled herself together and made her way through the familiar corridors.

Lord Baelish was waiting for her and she noticed, as always, the way he had to tilt his head up to kiss her. As they took their seats they chatted about inconsequential matters, about Alyse, and finally about the small council. She took special note of the tone of his voice when he spoke about Tyrion. It bothered him deeply that he was still Master of Coin and not Hand, she knew this. It bothered her even more, especially since she had yet to see what he intended to do about it besides complain. Tyrion was a good man and more than cooperative in getting their marriage annulled, but the Hand was the Hand. She thought of Alyse and what alliances would be open to her as daughter of the Hand, and of her husband’s seeming unwillingness to move the pieces into line. She smiled at him and said nothing as her fingers curled into her palm under the table.

As he talked on, she allowed herself to slip into thought. At first, her thoughts concerned her husband, and this odd domesticity he had settled into. He still enjoyed the game, she knew that, could tell from the way he took her every time they successfully destroyed a mark. But there was a sense of caution now that she had never seen in him before. It went beyond just ensuring that they remained blameless. Moving on, she thought about her plans for Alyse. Of the Moon Door. And further back, to Sansa Stark and the memories that had returned to her when she resumed her life, the memories that woke her in the night. Of her Florian and the Hound, and wrapping his white cloak about her as the river burned. Of Winterfell and Lady. Of Ned Stark. She could feel her nails biting into her palm.

Petyr said something and the memories retreated to the background. Sansa regarded his face coolly, this man who had once promised her a crown. She smiled serenely and asked him to repeat himself.

****

He made love to her that night the same way he always did—-full of passion and desire and detachment. Sansa, as always, managed to get pleasure out of it—-there was, in truth, some to be had—-and ignored his fantasies. At some point in time she had allowed herself to be flattered by all this, but she had completed her lessons and now saw clearly the shadow he took her for. But she had let him indulge himself and gave herself freely, and he had given her everything he could.

Afterward, he drifted asleep beside her. He always fell asleep first now. Sansa’s mind did not allow her that. She remained alert, studying him in the dark.

Delicately, so as not to wake him, she traced the faded scar on his chest. The flesh was smooth, the cut and the story well known to her. When she reached his collarbone she continued to trail her hand up, until her fingers splayed across his throat.

As she listened to his deep, easy breathing, she felt that familiar twinge of satisfaction, deeper and more lasting than any other form of pleasure, as the pieces in her mind began to align.


End file.
